Hogwarts, A Story
by bathtubblogger
Summary: A collection of unrelated drabbles and oneshots about Hogwarts. Includes students and teachers as well as stories about the Wizarding World: the Ministry of Magic, the Order of the Phoenix, and more.
1. Ron Weasley and the WonderWitch Dilemma

**Disclaimer: JKR owns the world of HP, and I just get to romp around in it.**

**This oneshot was written for ****SomethingWithMitten****'s challenge on ****Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges**** forum titled ****Prompt & Post Challenge****.**

**I had 72 hours to complete the following three oneshots and drabbles.**

**Pairing: Hermione/Ron**

**Prompts: Crossroads**

**Genre: Romance**

**My other two pieces for this challenge are depressing, so I had to make this one fun, simply for the heck of it. **

**The prompt appears in the very first paragraph; I hope it wasn't too weak.**

**Word Count: 959**

**Enjoy.**

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><p><strong>Hogwarts, A Story<strong>

**Ron Weasley and the WonderWitch Dilemma**

Ron was grappling with a serious problem. This was the ultimate decision of his life so far. He had no idea how to choose a path. This fork in the road had appeared quite recently, and he was struggling with the decision. This crossroad would decide the rest of his year, and he realized that he was unprepared for the consequences.

He was standing between the stands featuring Cupid Crystals: "He'll be infatuated immediately with these personalized crystals!" and Passion Powder: "A snog he'll never forget!"

Fred popped up behind him.

"Looking to delight a lady friend, Won Won?"

George materialized next to his other shoulder.

"Or is it a laddie you're lusting after? Remember, Fred, we don't discriminate!"

"Oh shut up!" Ron hissed, his cheeks tingeing a mottled pink. "I'm not looking for a Love Potion, I'm just waiting for Harry!"

"Sure," nodded Fred.

"You do that," added George.

"Be a sheep," Fred advised. "Follow Harry blindly. Now there's a youngster who knows what he's doing in life."

"You know, Fred," George mused. "I wonder if Ron's looking for a Love Potion so he can step out of Potter's shadow."

"Hmmm," murmured Fred. "Well, in that case, Ron, you'll want to buy some Beguiling Bubbles from our brand new line of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes products we like to call 'WonderWitch'. This little jar is our special favorite. All you've got to do is blow them around your hair in the morning and girls will be fawning over you all day. Simple."

"And," George continued. "Because you're our brother, we'll even knock down the price. Five Galleons to three. Sound like a deal?"

"No!" Ron snarled, mortified. Several girls were staring at him from across the shop. "I'm just fine. My love life is swell, and I don't need any of your bloody Love Potions!" With that, Ron stomped out of the store, deserting Harry.

But Fred and George both saw him pocket a glass of Twilight Moonbeams as he passed the display.

"Ah, our poor misguided brother. Already venturing into a life of crime," George sighed. "We'll get him for that later."

"Yup," Fred smiled. "I've got an idea already."

* * *

><p>Crouched behind his trunk at Hogwarts, Ron was about to pour the potion secretly into a small vial.<p>

Harry suddenly bounded into the dorm.

"Whatcha up to?" he asked, bouncing on Ron's bed.

"Argh!" Ron screamed, throwing the bottle in the air, startled. "What are you doing?" he roared, catching the potion in midair and desperately trying to shield the label from Harry's view.

"Is that a Love Potion?" Harry inquired curiously.

"No!" Ron covered poorly. "It's a Freckle Remover Potion. Mum bought it for me and I'm trying to throw it out."

"Okay," Harry said, unconvinced. "Come on downstairs, Hermione's got our O.W.L. exam schedule planned out from now until June."

* * *

><p>That night at dinner, Ron clumsily pretended to bump the peas over Hermione's plate as he was passing them to Seamus. He emptied the small vial into her cup of pumpkin juice.<p>

As dinner continued, he watched out of the corner of his eye as Hermione ate her meal. She had two helpings of pudding for dessert but never once did she touch her juice. He left to go to the bathroom, and when he came back he feigned a trip and landed squarely on her lap, hoping to start her choking. She didn't choke at all, and simply helped him up with a roll of her eyes.

For a moment, he was terrified when Ginny asked if she could drink Hermione's juice. But Hermione apologized, saying that she had a cold. Ginny then downed Harry's juice with a shrug.

When dinner was over, Ron lagged behind. Hermione and Harry looked at him quizzically but he motioned for them to go ahead.

He was such a failure that he couldn't even administer a Love Potion properly! Hermione would never like him. He was a blundering oaf.

Dejected, he slowly returned to the Tower. When he was twenty feet from the Fat Lady's portrait, he was suddenly pulled into an alcove.

"What did you put in my juice at dinner?" Hermione asked, threateningly pointing her wand at his nose.

"Uhhh," Ron stammered. "Nothing, Hermione. Why would I do that?"

"Stop fooling around, Ron. I saw you slip a vial into my juice. What was it?"

With a sigh, Ron looked into her eyes. "I put in Love Potion in your juice," he muttered, dropping his gaze to his shoes. He noted how large they were. "Sorry."

Hermione was silent for a few moments and Ron was afraid she was going to jinx him.

"Ron," she exhaled in exasperation. "Didn't you read the instructions?"

"Huh?" he asked, confused at her reaction.

"I'm assuming the vial was from the twins' new line, WonderWitch? Ron, those potions were designed for _girls. _Girls who wanted to attract _boys. _You, Ron, are a boy. If you wanted to attract a female, you probably shouldn't be using potions which beguile males. Did you notice Neville sniffing my drink after dinner?"

Ron flushed furiously. Now he was an even bigger moron- one who charmed boys instead of girls!

"Anyways, even if you had bought the correct potion, it wouldn't have worked. _Amorportaria_, or Love Potions as they are more commonly called, only work on unsuspecting people or enemies," she explained. "They are brewed to be defective when drunk by family members or extremely close friends because, well, that would just be bad."

"Hermione, you're confusing me," Ron interrupted. "Are you saying that you're already my friend so the Love Potion would have no effect on you?"

"Silly," Hermione admonished. "If I was your best friend (and I'm one of them, by the way), I could very well love you in a romantic way. That's not what I'm trying to say." She took a breath. "The correct Love Potion wouldn't work in me simply because I'm in love with you already."

Ron simply stared, stunned. Hermione muttered, "Why do I always have to do the work?" and promptly kissed him.

* * *

><p>Harry stole back to the common room silently with a smile on his face. He quickly wrote to Fred and George.<p>

_Your plan worked. I told Hermione what Ron was planning to do, and she confronted him. Thanks for the tip off._

_Harry_

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed this piece of fluff. Please review!**


	2. Reflection of a Fantasy

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot of my story.**

**This drabble was written for ****SomethingWithMitten****'s challenge on ****Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges**** forum titled ****Prompt & Post Challenge****.**

**I had 72 hours to complete the this drabble.**

**Pairing: Hermione/Ron**

**Prompts: Mirror**

**Genre: Romance…**

**I don't know why, but I seem to be gravitating towards depressing, angsty love stories. I'm sorry- forgive me? :) Enjoy!**

**Word Count: 627**

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><p><strong>Hogwarts, A Story<strong>

**Reflection of a Fantasy**

She was once more wandering the corridors of Hogwarts, but this time she was frantic. Her gasps pressed hard at her lungs, which were scrabbling for oxygen. She was moving her feet quickly, but had to keep her slippers quiet. Filch was extra vigilant at night.

She had so little time, and every moment she missed slipped a bit of that precious time into the past. Why did her feet seem rooted to the spot? If only you could Apparate within Hogwarts, life would be a lot simpler.

She hurried past her old History of Magic classroom. Binns would be in there, but he was completely unaware of anything besides his own droning voice so he wouldn't notice a disturbance.

"Now, quickly, quickly," she hissed to herself, hurtling past empty rooms.

She turned twice more, and then suddenly the place appeared as if out of nowhere.

Breathing deeply, she fixed her mind and paced three times past the expanse of the wall, feeling the anticipation building in her heart. When the door revealed itself, she threw herself into the entry, joy and expectation bubbling through her body.

There it stood, abandoned and dusty. It was so beautiful she almost broke down. Thank God. Thank God it was still here. She slowly stepped towards it, the danger of this journey acutely pounding in her head.

Once more she halted before the mirror, gazing at her reflection in its grimy surface.

Her hair was frazzled mess and she could almost see her nerves uncoiling under her skin. He would come, she reminded herself. He always did.

And sure enough, out of the darkness lurking behind her, a figure appeared, plodding through the thickets and thorns of the magical image. His red hair was longer and unkempt, but his blue eyes were as dazzling as ever.

When he stopped beside her she let out the smallest, happiest sigh.

"You came," she murmured, pressing her hand up to his cheek.

"Don't I always?" he responded, grinning. He smoothed the wisps of hair that had escaped from her ponytail and gave her a tiny kiss.

She responded eagerly, pulling his head down further. When they disentangled after a while, she gazed up at him. "I love you, you know that?"

"Always," he smiled once more, but he looked mournful. "And I love you too, Hermione. Forever."

She was about to embrace him once more when a violent rumble jerked the cavernous chamber.

He cried, stumbling in panic. She clung to him, desperate and frightened, but it was too late.

"I need to leave, Hermione. I love you, forever- goodbye! I love you!"

She froze in terror, mouth open in a soundless scream, as her love was torn from her and thrust back into the mirror's shiny, cold glass. She pounded on the unfeeling portal that captured her dreams. "Come back!" she howled. "I can't live without you!" But the mirror was silent and impassive, steadily ignoring her. It was, once more, just a mirror, showing her a picture where she was alone and hopeless.

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><p>Hermione woke with a start, gasping. Her heart was beating painfully fast and she gripped the sheets with her fingernails violently.<p>

It was only when a drowsy voice mumbled, startling her, that she could make a sound.

"You okay, Mione?" asked George, shuffling his legs under the blanket. "You have a bad dream?"

"No," she whispered faintly. "I'm all right. Go back to sleep."

Her husband turned and buried his face in the pillow, snoring.

She was wide-awake and terrified. Reality crushed down upon her, and she could do nothing but weep at the bitter agony of it all. Ron was dead, gone. She was left staring into the chilly truth trapped in her eyes, forsaken and lost.

**A/N: I hope you liked it! I wished I could have wrapped the ending up nicer, but oh well. Please review, it makes my day!**


	3. Good Friday

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, JKR owns everything you recognize.**

**This drabble was written for ****SomethingWithMitten****'s challenge on ****Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges**** forum titled ****Prompt & Post Challenge****.**

**I had 72 hours to complete the three drabbles. **

**Pairing: Hermione/Ron**

**Prompt: Sacrifice**

**Genre: Angst/Romance?**

**This drabble does contain a mention of abuse. You have been warned.**

**Also, my title is inspired from the Christian celebration of Easter and Holy Week, FYI. I am Catholic myself so in no way, shape, or form am I trying to insult Christianity. Just thought I'd add that tiny disclaimer in. :)**

**Enjoy.**

**Word count: 573**

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><p><strong>Hogwarts, A Story<strong>

**Good Friday**

Isn't it true that the people who love you most also hurt you the most?

I'd always heard that saying, but never sincerely believed it until now. I grow sick at the thought. It's nauseating.

How can I still love a man who cannot even love himself? Who has become so dependent on alcohol that he doesn't even remember when he hits his own wife?

I do not like asking myself these questions. They burrow straight to my very core and sting my soul, like a Dementor's Kiss.

I toss and turn at night- I barely know when last I slept more than four hours. And the children- oh, they don't sleep well either. Rose is only three but she's aware something's not right. And Hugo is a restless baby, waking me with his shrieks during my few precious hours of rest. I- I try to comfort them, as best I can.

It was gradual, in the beginning. Fred died, you know. It was… painful. For myself, too, because I never realized how much I loved that idiot. And it was difficult to watch Ron just… empty out. I always thought he would get over it. A year after the war, Ron proposed. I was happy, I guess. I loved him. Pardon me, I _love_ him.

I love him.

But something was always just a bit off. He began spending more time at work, and when he was home he was always brooding. I became pregnant with Rose- he seemed enlightened then. Like he had something to live for. She was born in May.

I was always so busy taking care of her. Ron was hardly at home. I assumed he just stayed late at the office, but his paycheck never seemed to reflect all his industrious hours.

Hugo was born in late September, and now with two kids I began pressing Ron a bit harder to help out. He would get furious and storm out of the house, swearing. I generally did not push the matter further.

But one day, Ron came home smelling strongly of alcohol. I had gotten whiffs of Firewhiskey on his breath before but I paid no mind. But this had gone too far, and the kids were in the room! I told him to get out, but he grabbed me and threw me to the floor. I was knocked unconscious and when I woke, he told me that I had fallen and bruised my head.

From then on, it became much more frequent. I began suffering from panic attacks and whenever I heard the door creak my blood would freeze in my veins.

Oh, he didn't know what he did, though! He wasn't in control. That wasn't the Ron that I married. The Ron that I married breaks down in the middle of the night, sobbing. He tells me how sorry he is that he drinks so much. He's promised to get better.

It's always a struggle of course. But that's our burden to bear.

Everyone's got to make sacrifices.

I need to make mine, for my husband and for my children. I love them all too much to surrender what is so obviously a mere fault of the flesh. He's a good man, Ron is. I'm the one who needs to be stronger.

*Click *

_The last entry in Hermione Granger's therapy session tape at St. Mungo's before she was transferred to the Insane Ward._

**A/N: I hope you liked it, and please review. **


	4. Flawless

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

**This was written for Griffinesque's challenge on Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum titled The Writing Competition.**

**I had one week to complete this one shot. **

**My pairing was Lily/James.**

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><p><strong>Hogwarts, A Story<strong>

**Flawless**

It was, Lily thought, a wonderful day.

She had woken to a warm breath of sunshine sighing through the open window and curling around her fingers and toes like a fiery glove, scorching the pillow and making the insides of her eyelids glow like embers.

She shivered involuntarily as the crisp, impatient breeze wafted in, reminding her it was definitely late fall, even if the sun tried to trick her. She could faintly smell the crunchy amber leaves and the last apples clinging to the branches.

With a languid, peaceful groan she blinked her eyes open, startled to find the large eager eyes of her husband mere inches from her own.

"James!" she shrieked, jerking back sharply. "Merlin, you scared me." She wiped a hand across her forehead, gazing into the impishly grinning hazel eyes of her husband. With a hint of suspicion staining her normally cheery tone, she asked, "James, what are you up to?"

Chuckling, he pulled his wife off of the bed by her wrists, the blankets falling in heaps on the floor.

"Today, dear," he announced. "We're going to have some fun!"

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><p>That was how Lily found herself in a curly black wig and a huge flannel shirt, pushing Harry's stroller by the edge of the lakeshore.<p>

With a loud, bright laugh, her husband bounded up beside them, tossing his arm over her shoulder. He, too, was well disguised, having removed his glasses and donned a blond, spiky wig, which made Lily giggle profoundly at the sight.

"What?" he exclaimed in indignation. "I think it makes me look _cool_!"

Lily was still snickering as James ruffled the synthetic locks proudly.

"I knew it!" a scratchy voice declared jubilantly from behind them. "I'd recognize that awful laugh anywhere. Lily and James Potter- _what_ are you doing outside?"

Whirling around, the couple stared in horror as a wasted old witch trotted over to them. Bathilda Bagshot glared up at them, her eyes accusing.

"You're supposed to be hiding," she hissed. "It's rather dangerous for you to be outside, especially with Harry."

James stepped up, his fingers quivering a little in nervousness as he gazed down at the wizened witch.

"Bathilda, I understand your concern, but I've made sure that we're completely safe. The Dark Lord is not going to waltz into Godric's Hollow on a sunny October day. Besides, our house is locked, we're in disguise, and I've cast a Shield Charm on Lily and Harry. We just wanted a day outside- it's gorgeous out, can't you agree?"

"Well," Bathilda snapped. "See to it that you get back to your house immediately. I'll be watching from my window."

"Of course," Lily added. "We'll just pack our things up and be on our way."

* * *

><p>The Potters spent the rest of the day at the beach.<p>

Harry got his first feel of a wave, the frothy bubbles on the shore sweeping over his feet. He chuckled cutely until the next wave, stronger than before, knocked him flat on his back.

"Oh!" Lily cried, rushing to his side. His eyes were starting to tear up, so she picked him out of the small crater he had created and brushed him off on their towel.

James had just returned from gathering rocks and small shells.

"Well, Harry. That's the first lesson a man's got to learn in life. If a wave knocks you over, you've got to get back up again."

He presented an array of pebbles for Lily to choose from.

Snickering at the absurdity, she grabbed a small white one. James took two large black stones and led his family down to the shore once more.

"Come on, Harry. This is how you skip a rock. Follow Daddy."

With a forceful snap of his elbow he sent his rock sailing across the water for a few meters until it sank.

"Ahem. Sometimes you've got to put more power into it. Here, Harry."

James guided his son's tiny arm so his stone flew several feet in the air. It plopped to the lake floor only one meter away.

"That's it, son!" James exclaimed. "Did you see that, Lily? Our son's a champion!"

"Sure," Lily marked dryly. "That's a winning throw, that was."

With a flip of her new black hair, she flicked her white pebble ten meters until it slipped smoothly beneath the surface.

She gave her husband a haughty smile and turned on her heel.

Grumbling, James whispered into Harry's ear, "Never compete with women, mate. They'll just make sure to humiliate you."

* * *

><p>As they stepped into the kitchen, Lily groaned contentedly.<p>

"Ah, I'm so full from our lunch. Should we just make something small for dinner?"

"Sure," James agreed, setting Harry down in his high chair. "How about some famous Potter ravioli?"

With an approving grin, Lily started to unpack their picnic basket.

Harry gurgled happily.

When Lily returned from shaking out their sandy towels, she saw James' blond head bending over a steaming pot.

Snatching his wig off his head, she danced around the kitchen.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Give that back!"

"Why?" she teased. "Does it make you feel _cool_ in the kitchen, Mr. Head Chef?"

Growling playfully, he raced around the small dining room table, finally capturing his wife in his arms.

Gently tugging off her wig, he grinned as her long red hair unfolded from her head.

He tossed both wigs to the side and gave his beautiful wife a long, slow kiss.

Untangling, Lily looked at her husband.

"I love you," she whispered. "This was a perfect day. Thanks." She gave him a sweet kiss.

A loud, harsh knock interrupted their intimate moment.

Groaning, James scowled at the door. "I bet you ten Galleons it's Bathilda, come to scold us for coming home so late."

* * *

><p>"Lily, run!" James roared, tearing his eyes away from the figure in the doorway and glancing desperately at his wife. "Grab Harry and run! I'll hold him off!"<p>

She did the only thing she could do. Thoughts were useless- instinct was all she had left. Seizing her wailing son, she streaked up the staircase to the nursery. They would Apparate as soon as they were out of the house, and James-

A sickening flash of green light erupted around the confined walls of their home, and Lily turned to see James crumple like a puppet, lifeless.

For half a second all she could do was freeze, watching her husband die and feeling her body fracture with his. She didn't know why they called it heartbreak. It felt like every other part of her body was broken too. The will to fiee vanished and she was left with an overwhelming desire to surrender. Her body could no longer hold her weight- she slumped against the banisters, snapped.

The next moment, Voldemort turned his attention to her, huddled on the staircase. His eyes were terrifying, and as red met green a mysterious and powerful strength came over her body, like adrenaline, hot and fierce.

It was, Lily thought, in these moments that the spirit lead and not the mind.

Her heart was splintered but she still had something to live for. She had no choice but to wrench her shattered frame into the nursery. There was still hope left.

Harry. Harry.

She must save him.

"Step aside, Lily." His voice was ice-cold and raw, unfeeling and hard. "I just want the boy. Just give me the boy."

Her mind was numb but the words erupted out of her very soul, the only part of her that was not destroyed.

She must save him.

"No! Please! Take me instead- have mercy! I'll do anything. Not Harry!"

Another flash of green and then it was over.

* * *

><p>Inside they were boiling, cracked, broken.<p>

But on the outside it was pristine perfection, solid marble.

The house was paralyzed, rigid. James lay in the foyer like a sculpture.

Lily lay in the nursery, her red hair strewn about. She looked like she was sleeping. A mermaid, a martyr.

It was done flawlessly.

No mark left behind, a pristine work of art. He was an artist, the Dark Lord. A puppeteer, a genius, a master.

The only thing that spoiled the perfect, silent scene was the violent red lightning bolt scar marring the wailing boy's forehead, a mistake that had gone unlooked.

* * *

><p>But perhaps, Lily wondered as she floated through the veil, maybe it is the errors that make us perfect.<p>

**My song was Perfect Day by Lady Antebellum. My quote was: "****I don't know why they call it heartbreak. It feels like every other part of my body is broken too."**

**The last line bugged me and I wasn't sure if I was going to include it, but I did anyway.**

**I hope you liked it, and please review.**


	5. Guardian Angel

**Disclaimer: I disclaim.**

**This was written for Griffinesque's competition on Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum titled The Writing Competition.**

**I had one week to complete this one-shot.**

**My pairing was Luna/Cedric, and my song was **_**This**_** by Darius Rucker. ****AU Fic- Cedric lives.**

**Much thanks to Mittens (aka paintaprettypretend) for her awesome beta skills and title generating. **

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><p><strong>Hogwarts, A Story<strong>

**Guardian Angel**

* * *

><p>"<em>When one door of happiness closes, another opens, but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us." Helen Keller<em>

Sometimes I wish I could erase the past.

In one glorious swipe I would remove my regrets and my pain, brush off the pink rubber sprinkles, and be left with a clean sheet.

Unsoiled, unstained, innocent. Ready to be re-written.

And then I remember that all my absolution would not be worth it if I were to forget her. To lose my love would make the rest of my trickling moments of sand be wasted.

* * *

><p>With her flashing eyes and sharp claws, she tore my heart apart, naïve and trusting as it was.<p>

"It wasn't supposed to go like this!" I remember shouting at the heavens as they poured down their tears, mocking my misery. "I love her!"

And with her sly smile and haunting call, she slipped from my fingers, even as I desperately tried to drag her back. She was so teasing, so cruel. I wanted nothing more than to continue chasing, for she would eventually be merciful. To be with her- that was what I thought perfect.

Then my angel tumbled from the mocking heavens, surprised and confused. She landed in my arms and I gallantly set her on her feet. There was nothing at first. She was a child, oblivious and quirky. She knew nothing of love.

But as my eyes were trained on the dark shadow disappearing into the Forbidden Forest, she slipped her small hand into mine.

"Why do you want her?" she asked. "She betrayed you. You deserve better."

Disgusted, I pushed her away. I locked myself away, furious, blistering everything I touched.

I recognize now that I was angry because that small sliver of truth had weaved itself through my iron disguise and pierced my heart. I hated to think that my black swan had disappeared forever.

News came suddenly in the midst of my fury and denial. My mother had died, abruptly in the middle of the night.

I didn't understand. This was a mistake. Fate could not be so cruel as to rip my mother from me _now_. I sobbed, and my pain, anger, and hatred stained the ground where I wept.

She was always there, silent but supportive. I leaned heavily on this unknown force, and for the first time in a while I allowed myself to breathe, gently. Simply breathe.

It changed me, her death. Slowly, lethargically, I detached from my beliefs of the past. You couldn't spend life searching for what was gone. It's too damn short for that, and you just look like a fool.

She laughed when I told her that. She said, "Finally. You understand. That's what I've been trying to say, but you never really listened, until now."

She offered her hand, so tiny and unguarded. "Come?" she asked, her blue eyes large with hope.

With a feeling of recklessness, I let myself tumble headfirst, giddy with the first fizzy taste of love. How had I missed this before? Her feathers brushed my face as we flew, my angel clasping me protectively to her breast.

"This, this, this!" I screamed at the sparkling sky. "This is what I've needed!"

* * *

><p>I am so incredibly lucky to be here, with my gorgeous Luna. This is the moment I want to snap a picture of and relive over and over, because in this moment I am truly happy.<p>

I wouldn't erase this for the world. This is too precious and too beautiful.

I put my pencil away and push the paper back to the edge of my desk.

The light clicks off.

I'm done hunting for the forsaken.

There's something here and now to savor.

**A/N: I hope you liked it! This was my first adventure into Cedric/Luna, which I was a bit hesitant about. Constructive criticism greatly appreciated!**


	6. Of Facial Hair and Ballpoint Pens

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, no matter how much I'd like to.**

**This was written for don't-you-try-to-outweird-me's challenge on Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum titled The Weird Phobia Challenge**

**My character was Fleur and my phobia was ****pogonophobia.**

**I tried to write the French accent like JKR does, but I failed miserably and I think it's much easier to read without all of those "ze"s and "Allos" and whatnot. Just imagine it.**

**I hope you enjoy this. It's kind of fluffy and more than a bit weird…**

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><p><strong>Hogwarts, A Story<strong>

**Of Facial Hair and Ballpoint Pens**

"And this," Bill motioned, "Is the Office of Intercontinental Currency Relations. You'll be Mr. Whitman's secretary. I'm sorry- the desk is a bit cramped but I accommodated it as well as I could."

"Thank you, Bill. It is wonderful," Fleur politely replied.

Her cubicle contained a four-foot wide secretaire, a severely ripped swivel chair, a box of tissues, and a pen holder, which contained three mangled ballpoints with their caps missing.

"Yes, well," Bill flushed slightly. "My mother is very domestic. I pride myself on my decorating skills."

Fleur glanced at him, his hands stuffed sheepishly into the pockets of his slightly baggy jeans. She didn't know if he was joking or not, whether to laugh or to nod graciously. She decided not to risk offending him and simply smiled at the red head.

His face looked vaguely familiar, and the name 'Weasley' rang a small bell in the recesses of her memory.

"Weasley," she muttered, fingering one of the disfigured pens. "Have I met you before?"

"Ah, no," Bill chuckled. "Trust me, I would have remembered."

She peeked at him once more, a small grin framing her white teeth.

He was kind of cute, this carroty colored boy. He had a long, dangling earring that brushed the edge of his neck dangerously, and she felt a sudden, nervous urge to touch it with her hand.

"Ahem," Bill coughed, uncomfortable. It wasn't until he made noise that she realized she'd been staring at his throat like a ravenous vampire.

"Let's continue on, shall we?" he suggested, looking intently at a garish portrait of a leprechaun hanging on the wall.

Blushing, Fleur followed him out of the office, rather mortified at her forwardness.

* * *

><p>"This is the main hall of Gringott's. This is where our customers deposit and pick up transactions. All the workers are goblins. They work here for one reason: they're the only individuals allowed to hold all the secrets to the bank. We view them in very high regard."<p>

"Ugh," Fleur muttered under her breath, staring disgustedly at one of the particularly wizened goblins hobbling along one of the counters. "It is… what do you say? Repulsive!"

"Repulsive?" Bill questioned, turning to the goblin. "I mean, they're not the prettiest creatures on Earth, but after a while, you get used to them."

"It is their _beards_," Fleur spat, her brow crinkling in horror. "Why must they keep them so long and… _scraggly_?" She shivered slightly, grumbling, "Men in France, they never keep their beards so unkempt. They like nice, trim beards. Ugh, what barbarians these little goblins are!"

"Well," Bill mused, his forehead furrowing in thought. "I guess goblins just have different customs than wizards. You'll learn to appreciate what the goblins do. I bet you won't even notice their beards in two weeks!" He grinned happily at her.

At that moment, a goblin tottered over to speak to Bill. Fleur stumbled several feet back, a hideous look of fright on her face.

After listening to the goblin's message, Bill stood up and nodded once, grimly.

"All right," he answered. "I'll do it, but I won't like it. Here, Griphook will show you around, Fleur, I've got some business to attend to." He propelled the little goblin forward several feet until he was right in front of Fleur, and Bill moved to brush past her to see a customer..

That was when the terror set in.

"Oh!" Fleur shrieked, unconsciously recoiling into Bill's protective frame. "Get it away from me!"

Bill groaned loudly, staggering backwards. "Pen," he gasped. "Pen!"

Fleur merely continued screaming, flapping her arms and kicking blindly with her feet. If one of those goblins' beards touched her, she was sure she would faint. She could feel the tight, constricting grip of panic settling in around her mind, winding its slithery fingers through the nerves in her brain.

Thick, muscled arms encased her struggling body and dragged her into a small, dark, deserted corridor.

She was released from the man's hold, and she could nothing but shiver on the icy floor of the passage for several minutes as the blackness dissolve from her senses.

When her breathing and heartbeat had returned to normal, her eyelids flickered open softly. Maneuvering her elbows to hold her torso up, she looked around the passage. Leaning against a wall was a tall man, with eyes like thorns. He gazed at her, trembling on the ground, with a mix of distaste and pity.

"Lucky I grabbed you before you could do any more damage," he hissed, stooping low over her silvery head.

"What?" she asked softly, pushing herself away from him on her hands. "What do you mean?"

"Well," he glanced back towards the main hall. "See for yourself." He disappeared into the shadows, and Fleur looked around, a little terrified. What was she supposed to see? Had he just left her there?

Then out of the darkness, two forms appeared. One was straining to keep the other upright, as the man was teetering clumsily. As they came closer, she recognized the strong form of Bill leaning heavily against the other man.

She rushed forward to help the man set him carefully down on the bench, but he waved her away.

"No," he muttered. "You won't help at all. Bill, stay here. I'll be back- there are a few more that need tending to."

And he also vanished into the gloom.

"Oh, Bill," she whispered, falling to her knees in front of him. "I'm so sorry! I ruined everything. Are you okay? How did you get hurt?"

Raising his head, he grinned at her.

She was a bit taken aback, considering that she seemed to have caused a lot of trouble.

"Merlin, Fleur," he answered shakily. "You really don't like goblins, do you?" He chuckled hoarsely. "Here, help me get this out."

Confused, she controlled his quivering fingers as he undid the buttons of his shirt. She gasped in alarm as she saw what she had done.

Protruding from underneath his collarbone was one of her mutilated ballpoint pens, a little dried blood splattering the white holder. She must have unconsciously taken it with her during the tour and stabbed him during her panic attack.

"Oh," she whimpered, clapping her hand over her mouth. She winced as Bill gripped the end and tugged, letting out a faint moan as he did so.

"It's not too bad," Bill assured her. "Only the tip got in. I really can't imagine how you managed to stick that in me though- you must have been terribly frightened."

"Bill- I'm so, so sorry! I'll never be able to make it up to you! And now I'll lose my job, and-"

"Aw, it's not so bad. Don't worry, I'll make sure they won't fire you. But you probably will have to apologize to Griphook- I hear he got quite a kick in the temple."

Fleur sniveled a little.

"Come on. I'll go get this patched up and then I'll see you at eight?"

"Eight?" she questioned, helping him to his feet. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, I can't have you walking around Diagon Alley all alone, now, can I? Trust me, the Leaky Cauldron can get rather boring after a while."

More than a little bewildered, Fleur smiled and took his hand.

"I have to say, Fleur. This is a day I will never forget."

**Okay, I hate the ending, but whatever. This was a really random piece. Uh, review?**


	7. Master of the Game

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

**This drabble was written for LVB's competition on Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum titled Shakespeare Quotes Competition.**

**This is short, but I rather like it like that. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Hogwarts, A Story<strong>

**Master of the Game**

"_I follow him to serve my turn upon him." – Othello_

It's all a matter of how you play the game.

No matter what cards you're dealt, what hand you get- keep your poker face until the very end.

I walk up the stone slabs until I reach the door. I knock twice.

"Enter," his voice calls, ever so calmly.

He will see- they will _all_ see- that I am the master of the game.

"Alastor, I would like to give you the honor of placing the Cup in the maze for the Third Task."

"Yes," I smile and nod politely. Gratitude and thanks seep out of my every pore, sickly sweet like molasses.

I wait my turn.

Don't show them the ace up your sleeve until the die rolls in your favor. Too soon and they'll catch you; too late and they're already dead.

And so I anticipate the moment when the tide turns, when it's safe to reveal myself.

But for now I sit in this hollow body, obeying my foolish, old master, pretending to care for the boy. I stalk my prey like a cat, deadly and vigilant.

I wait for the moment that my true Master will rise once more. He will see that I am the best, the trustworthiest. I know how to play the game.

Just a little longer.

_On your mark, get set, go._

**I hope you liked it! If you couldn't figure it out, the character was Barty Crouch, Jr.**


	8. The Invisible Song

**Disclaimer: I do not own the world of Harry Potter.**

**This was written for LVB's competition on Harry Potter Fanficton Challenges forum titled Shakespeare Quotes Competition.**

* * *

><p><strong>Hogwarts, A Story<strong>

**The Invisible Song**

_"Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble!"- Macbeth_

He hums a little as he works, quietly. It is too soft for a passer-by to hear, but he can feel the throbbing beat in his throat and the tingling notes of the melody, blending smoothly into one song like an egg folds into a cake.

It's like a dance, an elegant duet. A slice here, a chop there, stir twice.

It almost terrifies him, the ease of the choreography. He gets so lost in the notes and the steps that harmonize so gloriously that he forgets the reason he's performing.

How he wishes he never remembered.

* * *

><p><em>The tune is one of those cheesy, slow dances- the ones that would be perfect if confetti and petals slowly drifted to the floor underneath their softly swaying feet.<em>

_He hates it._

_But he stays, because she, for some inexplicable reason, seems to like resting in his arms, her smooth cheek lying on his shoulder like a lazy cat, occasionally flicking a lock of auburn hair from her face. _

_He breathes in the slightly grotesque smell of the crowded room, teenage desire, and his own sick nervousness, but underneath it he can faintly detect the warm element of compassion, cinnamon-y and rich, emulating from her hair. He even allows himself to believe, for a moment, that it's the scent of love._

_Too bad it's only a scene playing inside his head. Only a dream, only a fantasy. Never real._

* * *

><p>He jerks out of his stupor, still poised with the knife in his hand. The spoon has slipped out of his fingers unconsciously, and he bends to pick it up, annoyed at himself.<p>

_Fool_, he snaps at his heart. _Get back to work._

This time the dance is not so joyous. He slams the aconite flowers on the desk violently. Hack, slice, saw, shear. It's rough and painful, like the memories grating against his ears.

The refrain comes pouring out of his body, buzzing with a multitude of notes. His eyes are on fire, but oh, how he wishes he couldn't see.

* * *

><p><em>His eyes are gray, like a cloudy day after a rain. They are tired. Dog tired.<em>

_He notes this with a sarcastic, vicious smile. Lupin is worn out, exhausted. Serves him right._

"_Severus." Albus' voice cuts through his crimson hatred for a moment. "You will make Remus' potion, then?"_

_Sneering, he turns to the old headmaster. How he hates it as the words slip like eels off his tongue. Traitors, deserters. _

_"Yes," he answers. "I will."_

* * *

><p>And how Lupin had watched him from that day in Dumbledore's office, cautious and solemn. They hardly ever spoke, but when they did, their words were laced with arsenic.<p>

But it was the pauses- the unsaid thoughts, the brushes past each other in the hallway- they were the ones that were loaded with their intense hostility.

He thought, for a moment, that it was almost like school.

Almost.

But not quite.

* * *

><p>"<em>I don't need your help!" he shrieked, stumbling a little. "I don't need anyone's help, especially not yours, Mudblood!"<em>

_As soon as the name had flitted out of his mouth, he tried to drag it back in, but it had already been heard._

_He watched as her heart cracked, the pain flowing from her eyes, bubbling and soggy._

_He couldn't look at them- not Potter, with his filthy smug smile, or Sirius with his jeering lap dog expression. _

_Not even Peter, whose tiny rat eyes betrayed a sort of pity for him._

_He could only meet Lupin's eyes for a moment- their calm, smoky gaze betraying nothing, not even revulsion. He simply saw, simply observed._

_And Snape fled._

* * *

><p>He's back in his classroom, the cauldron bubbling and fizzing, emitting little snaps like cymbals.<p>

It's the finale of the piece, triumphant and fortissimo.

This is where the melody finally peaks, twisting and turning in all its intricacies, where the duet pirouettes and leaps, joyous and large.

But he stops moving, stops singing.

Something is off, wrong, jarring.

He sets the knife down slowly, horrified to acknowledge the fact.

Somewhere in the midst of the dance, his feet had faltered and wavered.

Somewhere in the midst of the dance, the music had lost its beauty.

**I hope you like it! Please review. :)**


	9. Practice

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

**For Lizz (TuesdayNovember). She knows why.**

**I wrote this in fifteen minutes, so please forgive any errors.**

**A bit short, but I hope you like it.**

* * *

><p><strong>Hogwarts, A Story<strong>

**Practice**

"Quicker, Pansy!" he roared from across the room, his forehead wrinkling like a bulldog's in annoyance. "You need to be faster! That one second is the most crucial- if you let it slip by, you're going to lose."

She whipped her wand down in exasperation. "I'm trying, Draco! This isn't as easy as it looks!"

"Well, _make_ it easy! It's the difference between life and death, Parkinson," he yelled furiously, his face flushed from the effort of ranting continuously.

She clenched her empty hand in a fist against her thigh, the cords of muscle on her forearm pronounced and rigid. There was a wetness gathering behind her eyelids, but she blinked it back hurriedly.

"Once more," he growled, turning his back on the pitiful scene.

She wiped a bit of perspiration off her brow with her rolled up shirtsleeve, although it didn't help much. Her whole body was soaked in sweat, and she could feel moisture pooling in her shoes like she had just waded across a pond.

Blaise lifted his head from the desk, where he had been languidly examining his fingernails for any sign of imperfection. "You know, Draco," he drawled slowly. "Maybe it would help if you took a break. I'm getting awfully bored over here."

"No, Zabini!" Draco snapped forcefully, his nostrils flaring. "She needs to get this- practice makes perfect. If you want to leave, you have every right to." Blaise stared up at the boy, tangled in his fierce gaze, his smooth jaw jerking with rage. She could smell the challenge in the air, mingling with the fatigue and vexation already clouding the atmosphere of the room like smog.

"Maybe Blaise is—" she started to say, but her tutor cut her off with a sharp flick of his iron eyes.

"Again, Pansy."

With a twitch of his hand, the cage door was flung open once more and a frantic songbird flittered towards the open window, chattering in irritation.

Gritting her teeth in frustration and pointing her wand once more at the bird, she hissed through feverish tears, "_Avada Kedavra_!"

**I hope you liked it. Please review!**


	10. Linger

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

**This was written for ****BlueEyes444's**** challenge on ****Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges ****forum titled ****Edgar Allen Poe****.**

**My pairing was Lucy/Lorcan and my Poe piece was 'Romance'. First NextGen!**

**I'm sorry for any grammar or tense mistakes… I was having issues for some reason with incredibly elementary verbs. :(**

**I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

><p><strong>Hogwarts, A Story<strong>

**Linger**

The noon sun glared harshly down on the ground, broiling even the tiniest ants. The air was draped about the earth like a soggy shirt hung on a line to dry, rustling faintly in the breeze.

Underneath the cool canopy of the weeping willow's branches, however, the world was quiet and peaceful. His feet swung with the lazy motion of the tree, carefree. The rough sandpaper bark rasped against the thin cotton of his shirt, the trunk creaking ever so softly because of the weight.

She turned her neck halfway around, glancing back at him from the corner of her eye. He saw the knobs of her spine through the sheer fabric of her tank top, all angles and edges. Her bare feet gripped the slim branches with simian agility, toes wrapping confidently around the wood.

Holding her arms out for balance, she gracefully slid farther down the branch, her calf muscles bunching and straining as she rose on her tiptoes, like she was going to spring off and let the wind carry her.

It's dangerous, but she never fell. She had done this too many times- if she were supposed to be dead, she'd be gone by now.

He noticed for the fifth time that day how beautiful she was.

"Lucy," he called her back, the words almost blending in with the cheeping of the birds and the droning of the mosquitoes, but not quite. "You're gorgeous."

She turned her face towards him, still balanced on the limb like a tightrope walker. A grin flitted across her face, and before he knew it she was in front of him, kneecaps still brown with dirt. She traced a finger softly over his eyelid and tapped him on the nose before scooting her feet backwards and reclining against his chest, letting out a breath in the process.

"Thank you, love."

That was it.

Effortless, uncomplicated, easy.

Of course there were always hard times, but everything was all right when they were together, with each other.

He wished he could loiter here, trap this moment in a jar like a firefly, and never let the light dim.

Simple, true, beautiful.

She leaned her head against his shoulder, nails tickling across his knee. Their lungs expanded in unison, in tempo with the rustling of the leaves.

_Simple, true, and beautiful_, he repeated in his head as drowsy sleep swept down on him.

Soon words were whisked away from his mind, but emotion still lingered while he dreamed.

_Happy_.

* * *

><p><em>Romance, who loves to nod and sing,<em>

_With drowsy head and folded wing,_

_Among the green leaves as they shake_

_Far down within some shadowy lake,_

_To me a painted paroquet_

_Hath been- a most familiar bird-_

_Taught me my alphabet to say-_

_To lisp my very earliest word_

_While in the wild wood I did lie,_

_A child- with a most knowing eye._

_Of late, eternal Condor years_

_So shake the very Heaven on high_

_With tumult as they thunder by,_

_I have no time for idle cares_

_Through gazing on the unquiet sky._

_And when an hour with calmer wings_

_Its down upon my spirit flings-_

_That little time with lyre and rhyme_

_To while away- forbidden things!_

_My heart would feel to be a crime_

_Unless it trembled with the strings._

- The Romance, Edgar Allen Poe

* * *

><p><strong>I'm pretty sure it's impossible to walk very far on the branches of a weeping willow, but since I've never been under or in one, I don't know. Maybe it's a magical weeping willow…<strong>

**Anyways, I hope you liked it. The ending gave me issues, so I would love some constructive criticism!**


	11. Vigilance

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

**This was written for Heart of Spellz's competition on Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum titled The Film Competition.**

**My movie was The Seven Samurai. I haven't seen this movie, I just read the summary on IMDb, and this is the idea that popped into my head. I was kind of experimenting with my style of writing, so bear with me.**

**Note: There are seven different people in the beginning, and the ones at the end are in the same order, if you care about those sorts of things.**

**I hope you understand this somewhat, and I also hope that you enjoy it.**

* * *

><p><strong>Hogwarts, A Story<strong>

**Vigilance**

* * *

><p><strong>4:17 AM<strong>

She shuddered a little in her sleep, the muggy breeze failing to soothe her shivering body. Goosebumps marched like little beetles up her shoulders, and he tried to pull the sheet up her bare back, but it wouldn't budge.

xxx

**6:00 AM**

As soon as the alarm began blaring some song from the Wizarding Wireless Network, he was out of his bed like lightning. The shower was freezing, exactly the way he liked it, and the drops ran in rivulets down the smooth muscles of his dark abdomen.

xxx

**7:03 AM**

She scrubbed the dishes, preferring to feel the clean water on her hands rather than use magic. He kissed her forehead sweetly, still smelling a bit like syrup and strawberries.

"I'll meet you at Fortescue's for lunch?" he asked, smoothing a piece of silvery hair back from her forehead. She nodded in affirmation and their lips met once more before he turned to the fireplace, grabbing some Floo powder as he went.

xxx

**7:59 AM**

He was almost late for work, skidding in at the last moment with a steaming cup of coffee and several days' work of coins stuffed haphazardly in his pockets. He started to mop the hallway in careless, wild strokes, and every so often he would slip a finger into his jacket and finger the Galleons lovingly.

xxx

**11:00 AM**

It was only the middle of the morning, but he was already wiped out. After sending Tonks off to work with a freshly packed lunch, he had Flooed to the Burrow, preparing himself for Molly's strict commands on cleaning the house from top to bottom. It didn't help that he hadn't slept well the night before- his wife had tossed all night, and he had barely gotten a wink before it was time to rise.

xxx

**4:00 PM**

His stomach rumbled, contented. The Parlour served a fantastic lunch- their sandwiches were to die for. Of course, the best part was licking their cones as they strolled through the streets of Diagon Ally, hand in hand.

Now he was stuck back in his office, struggling with a particularly difficult curse, and he desperately wished he was back underneath the cheery sunshine with Fleur.

xxx

**7:53 PM**

Pacing, pacing, pacing. What bloody use was moving his feet if his mind didn't move as well? He poured over the plan another time, drilling it into his memory with nails.

If a single thing was miscalculated, just one part off, it could be disastrous.

The clock ticked minutely in the background, and suddenly, with no warning, his head shot up like a snapping turtle's- it was time.

* * *

><p><strong>8:46 PM<strong>

Harry grimaced in disapproval at the six people in front of him downed the Polyjuice Potion in one gulp, their morphing faces blatantly showing their disgust at the sour taste.

It was a rather bizarre sight; to have, at one moment, six different people standing in a line, and then, at the next moment, to see them all transforming rapidly, new figures and features molding themselves into their skin like they had always been there.

Six confused and awkward looking Harrys were staring back at him, blinking rapidly and breathing loudly, like they all had colds. The Harry on the far left stumbled a little on the excess fabric of his robes puddled at his feet, swearing loudly. Harry could tell that that one was Mundungus, and the one who kept trying to flatten his hair with frustrated little grunts was Fleur.

"Come on, now," Mad-Eye motioned the group over. "Grab some clothes and glasses- don't forget the birdcage."

As the comical band hurried out into the immaculate expanse of green that was the Dursley's impeccably kept backyard, Harry fully realized the extent of this production. Several brooms were waiting patiently by Aunt Petunia's hydrangeabushes, two Thestrals raised their bony heads from the ground where they had been munching on large clumps of grass- Uncle Vernon wouldn't like that, Harry happily noted-, and the dark shape that was roaring happily was- it couldn't be!- Sirius' motorbike, with the large body of Hagrid sitting on the seat.

"Hagrid!" Harry grinned, running over to his friend. "Good to see you!"

"Harry!" Hagrid greeted in return, his large hand painfully rubbing Harry's head. "Good ter see yer as well! Now you'll be ridin' in the side car, that all righ'?" Before Harry could answer, a meaty fist grasped the back of his shirt collar and deposited him, along with his broom, rucksack, and Hedwig's cage, into the small pocket of space.

Around him, the six other Harrys were mounting their transportation as well. He could tell Hermione was with Shacklebolt on the Thestral, because she was tentatively eyeing the invisible beast that Kingsley straddled.

Ron was with Tonks, his fingers confidently gripping the broomstick. The twins were also on broomsticks, accompanied by Arthur and Lupin. Fleur was pressing tiny kisses to Bill's hands as the Thestral they were riding walked slowly forward. Harry was positive he never wanted to see his own mouth touching Bill's skin ever again, and Bill obviously thought the same but chose not to stop his wife's caresses, even while she was in Harry's body.

Moody shouted, "All right, then, Mundungus, get behind me. Ready to depart, everyone? On my signal- one, two, three!"

The odd procession kicked off into the night, parting to go their separate ways. It was only a few moments, however, until the darkening night was filled with hooded Death Eaters, flashes from spells and jinxes, and terrified screams.

In five minutes and thirty three seconds, someone was going to die.

* * *

><p><strong>10:56 PM<strong>

She jerked again, her face pressed into the pillow as if trying not to hear anything. She had taken four sleeping pills instead of the prescribed two, but she was terrified of not being able to sleep. It was only in her dreams that she could relax, but the pills didn't stop her from having nightmares.

xxx

**11:33 PM**

His breaths were stretching and expanding his lungs with their weight, and if anyone had peeked in they would have thought he was asleep. But his eyes roamed underneath his wide eyelids, searching for the piece that had slipped from the puzzle, and his heart ached in his chest as he repeated his friend's motto over and over, smashing the words into every crevice of his body. Vigilance, vigilance, vigilance. If only, he sighed, the guilt soaking through his veins and arteries. If only he had been _more_…

xxx

**12:07 AM**

She pressed the skeletal edge of her hip into his muscular back, the quiet tears slipping from her cheeks onto the bed. She didn't acknowledge the terrible, nasty truth that curled in the black part of her soul, but she was silently, unconsciously grateful that it wasn't Bill who had been killed or Bill whose ear had been slashed off.

xxx

**2:11 AM**

His pockets were now empty like the glasses sitting in a row in front of him, the glasses which he had used his coins to buy. He swallowed once more, fingering the current glass in front of him absentmindedly. The alcohol burned down his sensitive throat, mocking him. _You coward_, it seemed to shriek. _Spineless, feeble, weak!_ He only ordered another with some bloke's wallet that he had swiped, trying to oppress the tinny voice echoing through his ears.

xxx

**3:49 AM**

The sky was unlit, clouds curtaining the stars. There was no moon tonight, no reason to fear. The full one wasn't supposed to come for another six days, but he wished that he could escape into that savage part of him and not feel the pain like a dagger stabbing his torso. She mumbled in her deep sleep, and he turned from the window to glance at his wife, who was so scared but couldn't admit it.

He brushed the spiky purple hair with his palm and whispered, "It's okay, I'm scared too."

xxx

**6:14 AM**

His alarm was going to begin bleeping in one minute, and he wished he could turn it off and roll back over, burying himself in her hair, her skin, her smell. He had barely slept at all- images of George rolled over and over in his head, the scarlet blood staining his mind. Then Moody, toppling from his broom as Mundungus Disapparated, falling to the cold and broken earth. _Stop, please,_ he had begged. _I don't want to see any more._

* * *

><p>He lay on the ground, all cracked bones and dried, crusty blood, not breathing and not beating.<p>

The shadows shifted overhead, the fog surrounding his body and swirling the cloudy air around him like an embrace. Lupin and Bill hadn't found him- he was still resting in the same spot where he had fallen. Distantly, the Muggle traffic could be heard, rumbling its way along the road.

Voldemort was gone long ago, his fury scorching each and every one of his Death Eaters, who, terrified, departed after him.

All that was left was him and the land, pounding out its beat from deep within its core.

The greatest Auror in all of Wizarding Britain was prostrate on the grass, and no one was there to mourn at his funeral but the earth, which was spread, humming, underneath him.

**Thoughts? Please tell.**


	12. Irresistible

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

**This was written for I-Am-A-Starkid-In-Every-Way's challenge on Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum titled The Unusual Couples Challenge.**

**My pairing was Blaise/Lucius.**

**Warning: light slash. **

**This was most definitely inspired by Tasha's (TashaX) wonderful Blaise/Lucius oneshot, _Pretty_. Go read it, now! (Well, after you've read this.) I'm sorry if I borrowed too much, Tash darling.**

* * *

><p><strong>Hogwarts, A Story<strong>

**Irresistible**

His fingers trailed down the spiny ridge of the bookshelf, noting every crevice and gap between the ancient tomes.

He never read them. But he still kept them, anyways.

The sigh that escaped his silky lips was listless, relaxed. It betrayed nothing of his inner mind, convulsing with thoughts and memories that he really didn't want to replay.

The paper bobbed into the room on an air current, the magical folds of its body pleated so it resembled a tiny swan. With a small groan he flattened the planes of the note until the regal, elegant handwriting was displayed:

_Lunch is ready._

_-N_

_Narcissa._ His mouth curled around the name distastefully, repulsed. She couldn't even bring herself to send a house elf up, let alone walk the two flights herself?

No, he sneered. Sending a house elf would require effort, which implied caring. The only reason she didn't let him starve was because then she'd have no one to go to parties with, and she would be promptly shunned from society. As he fingered the smooth parchment in the pads of his fingers, a rather hilarious thought occurred to him. She was so unconcerned about his welfare, yet she deliberately created such a graceful instrument to convey her displeasure.

But that was Narcissa, he supposed. Twenty years of living with a woman generally acquainted one with her every day habits. His wife was always proper, polished, and pretty; she never had a hair out of place, was constantly tasteful in her appearance, kept a spotless house, and was mindful of the delicacies of her social position. All in all, a lady of the highest class.

He crushed the message in his fist, the tendons bulging from beneath the alabaster skin of his hand.

_Damn her._

He strode towards the door of the library that led to the hallway, intent on climbing up the final two flights of stairs to lounge on the rooftop garden where house elves would serve him his own private lunch, but with a sudden, startling movement he collided with a figure that hadn't been there a moment before.

Alarmed, he reached out for support, and a pair of powerful hands grasped his wrists, steadying him.

He almost let out a gasp, but he caught it before it could escape his throat.

Blaise Zabini's narrowed hazel eyes were staring into his own with a calculating, shrewd gaze.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, a little unnerved to find the boy standing in his library.

"Why am I here?" the boy responded, shaking his head a bit in confusion, but his eyes stayed trained on the older man's face with the same expression. "What else do you think I would do?"

Lucius composed himself quickly, ignoring the heat tingling between their fingertips, which were still touching.

"Do you know what I have been reduced to?" he hissed. "After you left?" He let go of Blaise's hands, hating the way his nerves prickled.

Blaise's countenance darkened, thick eyebrows drawing close above the long slope of his nose. His eyes had lost their cunning air and were rather resentful.

"I thought you would be pleased to see me," he said, bitterness lacing his voice. "I came to say hello."

Lucius let out a harsh, guttural bark of disdain. "To say hello?" he sneered, turning away from the boy and focusing his stare on the impressive windows of the library.

"Yes," Blaise answered, a bit petulantly. "I wanted to greet the master of the house before Draco and I leave for the Caribbean later this afternoon. I just arrived this morning."

Lucius knew that he had arrived. He had watched the boy climb the great steps to his house, had observed him being escorted to one of the many guest rooms, had seen as his son and Blaise raced across the cool waters of the Malfoy's pool.

He didn't want to admit it, but deep down the reason he had stayed locked up in his study all morning was because he wanted to avoid the boy.

"Well, you've said hello. Now run along and play more with Draco," he scoffed.

"I don't want to," Blaise whispered roughly. "I want to see _you_."

Lucius couldn't see the boy's face, but he expected that he looked rather pitiful.

He grinned, ever so softly. At least he still held some power- at least the boy still came running.

"Why?" he asked, turning back to Blaise, toying with the situation like a cat with a mouse.

Blaise sucked in his breath, hollowing out his mouth, his tongue dashing around plump lips in nervousness. He hadn't planning for Lucius to control the meeting so suddenly; he had been intending to shock the man with his arrival, but Lucius was far more crafty that he had appeared at first.

"You're… you're interesting," he confessed, a blush creeping up his cheekbones like spider legs, his innocence and vulnerability peeking through. "And I… I felt it would be proper…" He struggled with the correct term, trying to save himself from complete mortification. "It would be proper for a guest to greet his host." He glanced up at the man in question. Lucius stared back, unflinching steel.

But Blaise's divulgence sent hidden, trembling chills down his spine. A scene surfaced in his mind, saturated with the liquid of memory. He had tried to drown it in the past, but it had reemerged

"_What are you any more, Lucius," she jeered, curling her dagger nails into his skin. "Nothing but an old fool. You're not interesting anymore- no one wants to associate with an incompetent man."_

He once remembered when she breathed his name into the damp dark of the night, those same nails digging into the flesh of his body as if to rip off the pale skin and press herself even closer into his body.

But not now. Now she hated him because he was useless, shunned from their circle. A sour taste rose in his mouth, coating his throat and tongue.

Something was stirring, shifting, restless inside of him- untwisting like a basilisk in his heart.

He needed to move. But he was not one to beg.

A hesitant touch roused him from his thoughts.

He whirled around, the fire blazing through his body. He had had enough waiting- he needed change.

"Do you remember?" His voice slashed through the suspense between them, coarse words ripping gashes in the dense air. "How you left me? I should be hurling you from my house the way you acted, boy."

Blaise's features twitched, shamed at the memory of his insolence. His eyes were even more pointed now, jagged and prickly, diving underneath Lucius' skin.

"I am worth ten of you, Zabini," he growled dangerously, careful not to utter his first name. "Scorned Death Eater or not."

"Show me."

Blaise's eyes glittered, full of lust, daring him to try. An angry Lucius, though terrifying, also thrilled one with his feline, startling beauty, eyes and mouth stretching in fury, fingers curling like claws.

Things had progressed too far too quickly. There was no turning back now, Lucius told himself. Grinning slyly, he turned his back on the boy and opened a desk drawer, pulling out a sheaf of parchment. He scrawled slowly in his smooth writing, letting his raging heart catch its breath.

_I'm not hungry._

_-L_

With an intricate flick of his wand, the paper knit itself into a complicated design. With another swish, the peacock sailed downstairs to Narcissa.

Finally turning around to face the boy, Lucius looked him up and down, prolonging the boy's agony however he could. He didn't move, he didn't speak, he simply inspected. Blaise squirmed under his gaze like a disobedient child, impatient and more than a little tense. Blaise tried once more to attract the older man's attention.

"Show me," Blaise whispered again, half closing his eyes.

With a tiny, relenting smile, Lucius lightly brushed his nails down the boy's cheek, tracing the strong jaw and the full lips, then tickled down the muscles of his neck to his collarbone, a few dark hairs showing through the top of his button-down, which was just pleading to be discarded.

As his mouth pressed to Blaise's, the honey taste melting in his mouth as he bit down suddenly on the boy's lower lip, Lucius laughed inwardly at his realization.

He _was _hungry, actually- just not for lunch.

**My prompt was 'collide', and my song was 'One of Us' (the Exile Song) from The Lion King 2. **"**What else do you think I'd do?"**

**_Sigh_. I just feel like this is… off somehow. Maybe it's the characterization, maybe it's the plot. *snorts* Maybe it's the fact that I can't write slash. Constructive criticism?**


	13. On the Far Side of the Light

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

**This piece was inspired by the following quote taken from the novel **_**Atonement **_**by Ian McEwan. I read this part and immediately needed to put something tangible down on paper. This was written in a hurry, about 30 minutes. I am sorry for any mistakes. I will be also publishing more little drabbles inspired by parts of this novel- I really shouldn't, considering all the other work I need to finish, but sometimes muse just strikes and you need to write. By the way, I highly suggest you read **_**Atonement**_**, it's a brilliant bit of prose.**

**The title is taken from the selection.**

**I hope you enjoy.**

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><p><strong>Hogwarts, A Story<strong>

**On the Far Side of the Light**

"_That night creatures were drawn to lights where they could be most easily eaten by other creatures was one of those mysteries that gave her modest pleasure. At a formal dinner once a professor of some science or other, wanting to make small talk, had pointed out a few insects gyrating above a candelabra. He had told her that it was the visual impression of an even deeper darkness beyond the light that drew them in. Even though they might be eaten, they had to obey the instinct that made them seek out the darkest place, on the far side of the light- and in this case it was an illusion. It sounded to her like sophistry, or an explanation for its own sake. How could anyone presume to know the world through the eyes of an insect?"_

From _Atonement_, a novel by Ian McEwan

xxx

It had been there since her childhood, hovering in the corners of rooms and slipping behind doors whenever she searched for it. It was curious that way, how it teased her just enough to alert her to its presence, but when she went to find it, somehow it always disappeared. She fancied it was her own personal Peter Pan shadow- for everyone had those dark little secrets, even she.

Her mother laughed sharply when she divulged the story of her shady friend.

"Darling," she purred, her dragon talons which were painted crimson that week piercing into the fleshy skin of her upper arm. "You're much too old for tales like that. An almost eight year old shouldn't believe in imaginary people."

She would retreat to the highest corner of the house, wriggle between the boxes and beams of the attic until she was quite hidden from everyone but could peek out the cloudy window placed into the alcove and watch the world. Here she spent hours, scribbling in the notebook about the truths of her life. _It was real_, she knew it in the very bottom of her heart. One day she would make them see.

Her notebook was deserted when she left for Hogwarts at eleven. A small, dark-haired girl with pebble eyes and a scrambling gait much like a beetle, she was placed in Ravenclaw, for though unsociable and rather jumpy in her first year, nothing could hide her formidable intelligence. It wasn't so much the book smarts but the knowledge that was coiled deep inside of her, jagged and frightening. The students who brushed by her in the hallways were alarmed, aware that this tiny thing was immensely dangerous- there was some power inside of her that throbbed, patiently waiting to spring forth from her skeletal frame.

She chose not to write in a cramped notebook but instead covered pages and pages of parchment with her writing- there was not enough time or space for her thoughts to ever be fully developed, and so unfinished stories and pieces were folded and crushed haphazardly in her trunk and under her bed.

Her shadow friend didn't follow her at Hogwarts. The castle was too bustling in the daytime for the ghost-shade to follow her, and gradually, she forgot about it. Sometimes, though, when she would sneak out of the dorms at night for a quick trip down to the kitchens or to the Astronomy Tower, she would feel a whisper of a breeze brush past her cheek, and she swore she could faintly hear_ something_ calling her name, but she didn't know what it was.

Over the years, as she grew more confident of her abilities and stayed as far away from her house of birth as possible, the girl started writing publicly. The Hogwarts newspaper, which had been all but abandoned, flourished again under her startlingly firm leadership. With an army of newly trained writers behind her, she published piece after piece, articles and opinions and interviews.

Interviews were her favorite- she could imagine herself in their place, morph their words to spill out of her mouth, spin their feelings into complex emotions and realities. She could orchestrate a whole play within the confines of a thirteen inch interview, pull out the secrets from their souls and wind them through the typewriter, create a solid world where everything was real and no mysteries or narratives were hidden and untold, where everything was tangible and there was no nighttime, no blackness, for bad things to brew.

When it came time to graduate, she had several offers for internships lined up. A slew of local newspapers begged her to consider them, an American newspaper, a French one! The possibilities were endless, but every time she ripped open a new envelope and laid the gleaming card on the sill of her window where she could gaze at them every morning, something miniscule inside of her tightened. As excited as she was, something just didn't feel _right. _That is, until the windless day in late April when the curled green characters spelled out a proposal she couldn't refuse.

"_The Daily Prophet_?" she shrieked, whipping the envelope through the air. "Are you kidding me?"

_The Prophet_ just happened to be the largest newspaper in all of Wizarding Britain, and they were asking her to apply for a job? Not just an internship, but an actual position on their staff? _We think _The Prophet_ would be a great fit for such a talented journalist as yourself._ Of course she accepted, and threw herself into the routine of the journalism office, smeared ink on her hands and scraps of paper with her everywhere. The violent red gashes of the editors ripping up her work was new to her, but this criticism only forced her to write better, faster, more.

So it was only natural when her boss pulled her aside for a private conversation- "_The Prophet_ is always on the cutting edge of journalism, Rita, you know that!"- that she agreed to test out a new type of investigative reporting. The whole ordeal was concealed, painstakingly, from prying eyes, as it was illegal and a horribly awful thing to do, if one thought about it too much- but Rita enjoyed the challenge. Insects were the obvious choice, mundane so they wouldn't attract attention, small enough to slip into private places, fast enough to fly away at any sign of peril or exposure.

Quickly, as her writing became even more popular and preferred, she relished in her fame. As a woman she was respected, revered, venerated. As an Animagus in her beetle form she had the opportunity to pry apart the lives of her subjects, peel away the ornamented wallpaper from their minds, dive her fingers into the sticky glue of their mistakes, and flit away with her golden treasures before they noticed. She could find the darkness in their corners, transform back to a human and gather the threads in her hands, then weave it immediately into a glorious tapestry, fingers tapping like a hummingbird on the keys, and in less than fifteen minutes a reputation could be made or tarnished, soon to be printed in bold block on her page (_her_ page!), smelling like fresh ink and blood.

It was only at her mother's funeral that she caught sight of herself, the mirror image of the lady cold in the casket. Black was everywhere, like her hair, like her soul, like that shadow that she had pushed into a chest and locked away in her heart. With those jarring memories of the past- her mother, that house- the key which she had hidden had wormed its way back and clicked, and suddenly everything that she didn't want to see, everything that she had forbidden herself to be haunted by, was staring her in the face as she gazed down at the dead woman.

The tiny, spiderlike girl of eight was once more floating like a phantom in front of her eyes, constantly searching and reaching and hoping for an answer, an explanation. Disgust forced her to run home, fear forced her to slather those sooty, midnight strands in peroxide blonde dye, and hatred forced her to burn those thoughts and memories out of sight.

Her mother was gone, there was nothing she could be harmed by anymore, and now she had to go write two articles that were due. For the first time, however, she sat at the keyboard and could not type a single word. In the bathroom where the dye bottle and towel sat, stinking a little, those painful images of little ghost-spider Rita that she had lit with a match smoked silently, wisps and breaths congregating in the air and taking a form that was all too familiar; that shadow which she could never kill, a shadow that followed her forever.

**Thoughts? Questions? Opinions? Insults? There's a button for that.**


	14. Reconstruct

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

**This was written for Heart of Spellz's competition on Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum titled The Love of a Family Competition.**

**My prompts were: garden, ill, laughter, and table- they are used very faintly.**

**I realize this is definitely not a very happy portrayal of a family, but I like to think there's hope at the end.**

**Word Count: 1,596**

**I hope you enjoy.**

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><p><strong>Hogwarts, A Story<strong>

**Reconstruct**

The back of her knees dug into the cement steps where she was relaxing. Waves of light filtering through the iron latticework of the railing flickered across her face, making her squint. She did this every day, sat down and waited.

After her shift at St. Mungo's, she would return to the house, maybe do a couple of loads of laundry, start the dishwasher- and then, around three, she would open the squeaky latch of the screen door and lean against the steps of their house, sometimes listening, sometimes looking, sometimes not.

It was rather ugly, their house. It was small but was constructed of hulking masses of cement and timber, ungainly and uncoordinated. The front door was entirely too large compared to the walls, as if pretending to look more inviting, and the windows were in desperate need of cleaning. The shutters, which had once been painted a cheery shade of yellow in an attempt to brighten up the lot and detract from the hideousness, now faded to a murky chartreuse.

A few tendrils of ivy had been coaxed from the garden, gathering in sickly clumps around the window frame. The steps that she was currently sitting on were stocky and careless; thick logs of concrete piled in an unfinished heap together, as if the architect had suddenly thrown up his hands in frustration, angrily declared, "Fuck this!", and stormed off to find a drink or a cigarette.

Even the mailbox, which they never used and merely kept as a prop, leaned pathetically to one side as if wondering why their house was such failure.

Absentmindedly, she wondered if they would ever get around to remodeling, like they'd planned when they'd bought it.

A joyous trill of laughter startled her from her reverie. James was speeding up the street on his bike, returning from his play date with his cousins. In a way, it was nice having her sister only four blocks away, ready to welcome her son anytime Padma had a shift change and needed someone to babysit James.

Although sometimes she wondered what her life would be like if she didn't have a constant companion in her twin. At Hogwarts they had been separated by the Sorting Hat but perpetually tied together by their similarities. It was impossible to evade her sister's bubbly, warm personality, always reaching out and enveloping.

With just the tiniest bit of smugness, however, she would remind herself that it was she who had snagged the most coveted man in Britain through sheer wit- not manipulation, not cunning. Harry had chosen _her_ for a reason. If he loved her so thoroughly, she would assure herself softly, that meant there was something worthy in her.

Right?

James was tugging on her elbow, demanding an afternoon snack.

"Didn't you eat at Aunt Pav's?" she inquired, pressing a tiny kiss to the crown of his head as they went into the air conditioned kitchen.

"Yeah," he explained hurriedly, limbs in perpetual motion. "But we only got two cookies and a glass of milk. I'm _hungry_."

She chopped up some carrots and washed the blueberries free of any dirt.

"Here," she offered, setting the dip down next to the plate of food. "Eat up." She was panting a little- somehow the motion of walking up the steps and slicing the carrots had unsettled her delicate stomach.

Displeased at the healthy fare, James grumbled but stuffed a handful into his mouth, probably thinking that it was better to starve with two cookies of Aunt Pav's than eat blueberries, but he chewed anyways. She watched, though, as his face grew even more annoyed and disappointed, until he finally deserted the kitchen for the more welcoming and interesting backyard, without even a word of thanks to her before he parted.

Her mouth twisted in revulsion- not at his awful manners, which she ignored- but at her own idiocy. She wasn't adequate enough. Even when her son was starving, she could only offer him miniscule, cut up bits of vegetables and fruit. What child enjoyed eating vegetables, especially ones prepared for a baby's mouth, and not a six year old's?

She felt a sickening sense of drowning, like the truth had finally caught up with her. There was no oxygen for her to breathe in this house- this _damn _house, she hated it so much! And her son, repulsed by her, by her mistakes- and in that moment, she hated herself as well.

She needed to lie down, to escape from her son's loud, grating shouts filtering in through the screen door. Couldn't he just shut up? Just once, let her sleep in peace?

She wished she could snap her fingers and it would all be gone- James, Harry, this awful, constricting house, this monotonous, looping existence! And then she would be completely free- no obligations to love her child, to care for her husband, to sweep the floors and to cook dinner every night.

It wasn't that she didn't care for her son- she did, most deeply- but it was just sometimes when her mind darted to that place where she wondered if she only loved him as a mirage- she was supposed to love him, so she did, but it was never real.

What if her whole life was a vision, a hologram created in the depth of her imaginative mind? She pushed the thoughts away quickly, laughing at her own foolishness. This was the price for her inquisitive intelligence- she doubted herself and the world which she lived in constantly. It did her no use to ponder, she reprimanded. You are here, in the moment, with a wonderful son and a loving husband and-

Her breath hitched in her throat, unconsciously. She wasn't aware that she had been muttering out loud until the pause alerted her to the wavering of her voice. Her fingertips twitched downward, pressing to her diaphragm. _Breathe_, she tried to press her hand to the muscle. _Move, breathe, please. I'm choking. I'm dying!_ A hint of panic raced through her brain and shot down the nerves of her spine.

Her vision was suddenly rising, soaring out from the kitchen and zooming out the dusty windows, poised above their house, noticing every minute flaw contained in the walls, each magnified, terrifyingly, until they were all she could see.

There was the night that she and Harry had drank a little too much at the Macmillan'sparty, and the shouting match had only ended when she had whipped the porcelain vase at his head, shattering her contained, bottled up rage against the door frame.

And there, not three months ago- two in the morning, her every muscle taut as she willed her body not to move- as he slipped silently into their bedroom, praying that she was asleep and didn't notice how late he had come home. Her eyes didn't open, though, and the bed creaked as he slid under the covers, hardly believing his luck that he had made it back to their house unscathed. She could smell the sweat and the booze and the perfume on him, decidedly not masculine, but she said nothing.

And she said nothing when Harry grew so furious at James that he slapped him, the noise echoing painfully through the empty rooms, reverberating and reminding them- all of them- of their shortcomings again and again, each one like another slap to the face.

_Failure, failure, failure._

She was a failure, he was a failure, their marriage was a failure, their house, their life was a failure! It all tumbled down on her like an avalanche, crushing, damaging, breaking so she couldn't even think. She didn't know how long it lasted, maybe seconds, maybe hours. Each scene in her head replayed, until she couldn't see any more, and her thoughts wandered into some black pit, praying to come out the other side.

Softly, slowly, a flit, a glimpse of another kind of memory began to trickle by. Then more memories floated on, propelled by the current- the tulips he had brought home last week with a tender kiss, the pattern he had traced on her back four months ago when he held her protectively in his arms after a particulary bad shift.

She resurfaced from the calmer water, startled to find herself in the exact same place where she had started- siting at the kitchen table, and James was still running around outside. Good. She was still safe, she was still sane, she was still _alive. _Pumping, expanding, dividing cells, completely alive and all right. The terror had subsided, and she was filled with a curious mixture of calmness and strength.

And she made a decision, right there and then.

Purposeful strides brought her to the counter where she wrote a note before her newfound courage failed her.

_Tonight I'm going to tell Harry I want to remodel our kitchen. And our bedroom. And paint the exterior of the house. Also he needs to fix the mailbox- it leans to the left._

With a triumphant grin, her hand moved to her abdomen again, pushing slightly. And there it was, steady and most certainly real- the baby, gurgling inside her uterus, the placenta bringing nourishment and blood, life-giving and warm. No, this child inside of her was most decidedly real, and if she was sure of nothing else she was positive that she loved it.

She walked to the sink and started scrubbing James' dishes clean, soap bubbles floating upwards and popping.

For the first time in five and a half years, she began to hum.

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><p><strong>AN: Yes, I know my writing style is falling into a pattern, and I'm trying to work on that. I think this piece just needs to flow better... like, a lot better. Eh, but what's the point in writing if you don't take some risks now and then?**

**Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!**


	15. Left Behind

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

**This drabble was written for Weaving Radiance's challenge on Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum titled Memorial Day Challenge.**

**My prompt was 'left behind'. **

**This is what I like to call bittersweet fluff.**

**Much thanks to my awesome beta Sunny (silverfox98)! You're totally amazing.**

**Dedicated to all the soldiers killed in battle and the families torn apart by war. **

**I hope you enjoy.**

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><p><strong>Hogwarts, A Story<strong>

**Left Behind**

All during the jostling, lurching ride over the rolling hills, he glues his mouth in a permanent, vacant smile, eyes blank as he looks out the window. He understands what happens now – he may be only seven but he knows more of the world than all the other children in the car.

Uncle Harry shoots a worried glance back in his direction and asks in an overly cheery voice, "What's wrong, Teddy? Is James poking you again?"

The question is humorous and the tone of voice is light, but they both know exactly what Harry is trying to hide, what he is trying to distract the others from.

He shakes his head in response, shoving Rose's reaching fingers away from his hair.

His aunt converses softly with Harry in the front seat, every so often readjusting baby Lily's position in the blanket. Victoire throws Molly's doll with a violent screech, accidentally hitting Albus, resulting in a scuffling fight that is abruptly ended with a stern word from his uncle.

The car ridges the last curve and slows to a stop in front of Number 5 with an exhausted sigh.

"Teddy," Harry turns around and peers through the gap between the driver's seat and the headrest. "I had a wonderful time with you today. We'll owl tomorrow, okay?" There is a little quiet beat in which he thinks Harry will cup his palm around Teddy's chin, but his uncle only says, "I love you," and turns around. The Weasley cousins babble out of a confused mash of parting statements: "Love Teddy!"; "Bye-bye!"; "Later talk!"

A series of routine clicks – two seat belts unbuckling, two car doors opening and closing. His aunt always escorts him to the front gate, but never farther. There is a wordless code that she and his grandmother share, some sort of distant etiquette that prevents her from accompanying him to the porch.

Aunt Ginny wipes an invisible smudge off his cheek and bends her perfumed head down until their foreheads are touching. There is a hushed whisper, "We'll pick you up for dinner on Wednesday at six, dear." and a loving, tender kiss to the nose. One last motherly squeeze against her thighs and then she walks back to the battered vehicle, the mechanic tick of the lock loud in the silence after the door slams shut. "Wave goodbye to Teddy!" she orders, and on cue, five tiny hands wiggle each of their five tiny fingers in a bittersweet show of farewell.

He watches from the fence post until the dust stops whirling and he can no longer imagine the rough whining of the engine. He scuffs a little dirt with the bottom of his shoe, pitting the brown, smooth earth and imprinting it with the pattern of rubber on his heel.

For the millionth time in his short life, Teddy Lupin desperately wishes that he had his own set of parents to return to. The sour, gaping hollow in his chest swells again, and he thrusts back unshed tears.

The gate creaks sadly as he makes his solemn way up the rotting wood steps. He rests for a moment at the top, a lonely sigh billowing out of his lungs.

The wood swings behind him with an involuntary shiver as he enters the house and closes the door.

**I wish I could have wrapped the ending up better, but oh well. Thoughts?**


	16. Ask No Questions

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

**So this is a really random drabble. I think I've had too much of Reverend Dimmesdale in _The Scarlet Letter _and I keep rereading Ian McEwan's _Atonement_. Somehow those two meshed together into this…**

******Much thanks to my beta Snow (Very Carefully) and Lizz (TuesdayNovember) for her help, as well as Sunny (silverfox98) just because she's cool.******

**Enjoy.**

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><p><strong>Ask No Questions<strong>

_ask no questions:  
>you must obey;<br>and if you ask questions  
>you must accept all answers<em>

_- 'Ask No Questions' by Raj Arumugam_

xxx

You ask the question so curiously, so lightly, yet there is a seriousness about your words as you sit on the hospital bed, bruised and bloodied but electrified, that it terrifies me, thrills me, shocks me to my very core.

I decide to answer you in that split second between laughter and weeping. I almost fracture and splinter into little fragments because your words shoot into me like a bullet, but it must be an invisible one since I am still whole.

(To your eyes.)

_"I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks. One can never have enough socks. Another Christmas_ _has come and gone and I didn't get a pair. People will insist on giving me books."_

You stare at me, and I wonder if there is something on my face, like a crack, a fissure from an earthquake, splitting apart the wrinkled halves of my old man face to reveal the swollen, black, decomposing lump that is left of my soul.

Ha! If only socks and books could hold the key to my salvation, I would receive my Christmas presents with joyous, wide-open arms and stinging tears of delight would whisper down my hollow cheeks.

Alas, my dear boy, you ask your questions and you accept my answers, but if only you knew what I yearn for in my heart.

I am a fool, Harry, an old, experienced, saddened fool. I am alone, and desperately tired, and wishing (constantly) that one day I will awake to find myself a young boy again, innocent and unstained.

But every morning I despise the sun as it dawns, for I am still aged, still broken, still guilty, still blaming.

Atonement, but never redemption. Penance, but never absolution.

I cannot help but answer you with a reassuring smile, because I know what I will have to do in five years, and I know what you will have to do when I am gone, and I can only hope that this lesson I am striving to teach you will not be lost when I am.

Forgive me, Harry, I am tired, and I have no more answers.

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><p><strong>Please review!<strong>


	17. Paradise by the Sea

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

**This was inspired by MidnightEmberMisery's challenge on the Harry Potter Fanfiction forum titled The Paradise Competition.**

**Character: Katie Bell**

**This piece was due very close to a year ago but I did not submit it, I had abandoned it until I found it while cleaning out my cluttered writing folder. I dusted it off because it's short and cute and I'm in the process of publishing everything publish-able in order to start in a semi-organized state this summer.**

**Much thanks to my incredibly helpful beta cherryredxx (Pam)!**

**I hope you enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Hogwarts, A Story<strong>

**Paradise by the Sea**

She wondered if she had fallen in love with him because of the smell of his hair gel.

He wasn't the type to usually fuss over his appearance much at all, but when it came to his hair products, they needed to smell like the ocean—and that meant shipping them halfway across the world, no matter the cost.

She would bury her nose in his hair and inhale the wonderfully musky mix of man and sea salt, and it would immediately catapult her back to memories of the water—some horribly painful, some excruciatingly wonderful.

So many things in her life had happened near the sea; her summers by the beach at her grandparents' house, spent searching for shells and turtles, and shrieking in animated delight whenever a seagull squawked at her.

Her first swimming lessons as a terrified six-year-old in the chilly water, clinging to her grandpa's hairy forearms as he laughed his booming laugh. Eventually, she was able to let go, and by means of the instinct of self-preservation, clumsily dog-paddled her way through the swells and sprays of the ocean, the brine strong and harsh in her nose, almost choking but never quite.

Her first kiss at age fifteen with the boy from the village on the hill, his lips so deliciously soft against hers and tasting of fish and boats and hard work, her toes curling into the gritty sand as his strong hands pressed against her back.

Her mother's ashes were scattered among the rolling waves of the Atlantic from the rock where she stood now, leaning against Oliver's protective side.

She remembered how she had stood next to her father five years ago, forcing back the grief that threatened to spill out of the cracks and fractures of her body as the remains of her mother were tossed like dust into the biting wind.

It was like something had wedged its way between the two halves of her heart, and suddenly the place which had reared her, the sea which had fostered her endless curiosity and her imagination, the shore which had become her haven those past seven years, was thrown into unforgiving relief.

The crags jutted out of the surf like merciless fingers, clawing and scratching and trapping everything in its path. The shore was a treacherous desert that caught helpless marine creatures in its dry, rasping grip. The sea itself, which she had once thought so majestic and endless, blended in with the skyline until she was surrounded by nothing but gray and blue, an eternal cocoon of emptiness.

How she wished for a warm, comforting fire and green deciduous trees, leaves that would whisper quietly instead of the waves which roared against the land, relentless and forever beating their rhythm against the shoreline.

It took her several years to heal, to be able to look at water without retreating inside herself and bottling the emotions up. It was, in part, because of him.

Oliver had suddenly appeared in her life once more as the two were co-workers and co-captains of a weekend Quidditch team. His laugh was infectious and reminded her of her grandpa, who she hadn't seen since her mother's death.

A faint longing started to grow in the pit of her stomach, and the more time she spent with him, the more times she inhaled the scent of his hair—the more times she started to tip dangerously towards falling in love with him—the more that ache grew, spiraling and coiling and taking up way too much room inside of her.

So in one of her reckless fits, she brought him to the edge of the rock and she told him about all the memories that had been captured on the three mile coast, and he listened to her and held her and loved her, even when she was crying snotty tears and saying horrible and impolite things about her father and her mother and whoever ruled this damn world.

When she had calmed down, he was still there, beckoning her back to her grandparents' house.

"But I haven't seen them in ages," she protested as he dragged her along the oceanfront. "It will be weird with you there."

"All the better," he said, grinning back at her. "They might as well get used to me. I'm marrying you, aren't I?"

And that was how he proposed.

And here she was, eight months later, with the wind blowing her hair, bare-foot, wedding dress soaked from the spray. His arm was around her, hair gelled and smelling wonderful. The seagulls were circling overhead, occasionally calling to one another.

She sighed contentedly.

"What's wrong?" he asked, entwining their hands.

"Nothing's wrong. I'm just happy to be home."

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><p><strong>Thoughts? Please review!<strong>


	18. The Turning Point

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

This was written for **ParisInDecember****'s **competition on** Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges **forum titled** Impress Me Competition.**

My pairing was Hermione and Fred. This is an AU post-war fic, because obviously Fred is alive—George is the one who died. I'm sorry for messing with canon, but it had to be.

I hope you enjoy.

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><p><strong>Hogwarts, A Story<strong>

**The Turning Point**

_But leave me a little love,_

_A voice to speak to me in the day end,_

_A hand to touch me in the dark room_

_Breaking the long loneliness._

_In the dusk of day-shapes_

_Blurring the sunset,_

_One little wandering, western star_

_Thrust out from the changing shores of shadow._

_Let me go to the window,_

_Watch there the day-shapes of dusk_

_And wait and know the coming_

_Of a little love._

From "At A Window" by Carl Sandburg

xxx

It was hot and muggy inside the office, a stifling, oppressing dampness that settled around the bow of their shoulders, constantly pressing down until Hermione believed it was impossible to even _look_ at the books, let alone write figures in them.

The sun was in the process of lowering its heavy body into the fortress of rigid buildings silhouetted against the sky, and from there it would slip beneath the comfortable sheets of the sea and leave their pocket of the world to sleep.

She gazed at nothing in particular for a while, enjoying how the last rays of the evening shed orange-red patterns of diamonds and rectangles through the panes and onto her desk, pages fluttering weakly in the faint breeze from the miniature fan.

She turned her chair towards the open window, letting it squeak in that obnoxious way that infuriated her boss to no end. Tapping her pen against the side of her hollowed cheek, she glanced at the man in question.

His shirt was rumpled, and a thread of pale skin was visible between his button-down and the belt of his pants. His lips, narrow and pink, were parted as he slept, and a bubble of spittle shuddered whenever a particularly noisy snore shook his throat.

Letting out an exhausted sigh, she quietly stood up to gather their coffee mugs and wash them in the sink, but with a clatter, the forgotten notebooks on her lap tumbled to the floor, shocking the silence of the room, ripping through his sleep like a thunderbolt**.**

"Shit," she muttered, turning her face away as Fred sprang to life with a venomous cry.

"What was that?" he gasped after a moment, recognizing his surroundings and wiping the hazy aftermath of his dreams away from his mind.

"I just dropped a couple of notebooks, that's all. Sorry," she added, somewhat unapologetically.

With an annoyed grumble, he looked down at his desk and the smudged sheaves strewn across it.

"Well, be more careful next time," he instructed.

Biting her lip so she wouldn't say anything, she gathered up the messy dishes and walked into the back office where the kitchen was located. The solitude and the icy breath of the air conditioner soothed her temper, and she watched the sun disappear behind the horizon while cool tap water flowed over her hands.

Fred was always angry and sore these days. He barely got any sleep, and when he nodded off during work he made sure to blame her for not waking him. She knew that he lay awake at night—when he arrived in the morning his eyes were puffy and ringed in black circles. She also knew she shouldn't get terse with him, but it was torture, getting bullied and shouted at all the time_. _

_If George were still alive, this wouldn't be happening to me._

"What's taking you so bloody long? Get in here, Granger, I want you to send these notes off!"

Gritting her teeth, she entered the main room once more and awaited orders patiently with a pencil and notepad at the ready.

Scrunching a hand through already tousled tresses, Fred leaned on his elbow and began.

"All right, you can send off that letter I wrote yesterday to the factory, I've decided to go with the original plan. Respond to that message from Morgan, and while you're at it, tell Ginny to stop buying my shampoo in bulk. I've got three huge containers in my shower and I keep tripping over them. Then you can—"

"What am I supposed to tell Mr. Morgan?"

"Who? Oh, just write something that sounds like me."

"Fred, he specifically asked you whether or not you wanted to invest! Do you, or do you not?"

He gazed blankly at a quill in his hand, twirling it back and forth.

"Ah… toss a Galleon and see. Heads will be yes, tails no."

She growled in exasperation, but Fred had already continued with his instructions.

"Owl Lee and tell him that, no, I do not know the exact location of the Brazilian biting tarantula. Do I look like a zoologist? And I guess you could ask Mum if she's going to be baking any of her biscuits this weekend, and if she is, could she send a package? That's all."

Grumbling, she returned to her seat and got to work on the letters.

xxx

The only sounds were the scratching of their quills, the steady whooshing of their lungs, and the uneven rhythm of Fred's foot on the floor.

Once, just to perturb him, she squeaked her chair and he flinched, but to her disappointment, said nothing. She felt an overpowering urge to rile him up—to make him scream, so maybe she could scream as well.

A trickle of sweat snaked down the nape of her neck and slipped underneath the band of her bra, so she rubbed her shoulders against the back of her chair to wipe away the moisture. Merlin, it was _hot_.

She poured herself some water from the pitcher on the desk, grimacing as the lukewarm liquid swirled in her parched mouth. She swallowed, unconsciously doodling a little on the perimeter of the note to Ginny.

The evening cast long, dusky shadows in the room, so Hermione waved her wand and the lights flickered into life above their heads.

To her right, Fred exhaled in irritation, pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture that, surprisingly, reminded Hermione of Percy.

"You know I don't like having the light turned on until eight!" he reminded her, frowning, attempting to keep his voice civil.

She glanced at her watch and scowled. "Fred, it's eight thirty! Besides, neither of us could see a damn thing."

A snarl curled at the back of his throat. "That's the _point_!"

Oh, how she wanted to strangle him, irrational, obstinate git!

"I am so sick of this!" she muttered underneath her breath. Unfortunately, he had heard her.

"Ha! Sick of what? _You're_ always the one messing things up!" he spat in frustration, knuckles white as he grasped the edges of his desk. "Can't you keep a simple thing like that straight?"

"Me? _I_ mess things up?"

Somehow she was out of her chair, gesticulating wildly and punctuating the beginning of each sentence with an annoyed huff and sometimes a small stamp of her foot. The water pitcher balanced precariously on her desk tipped over, soaking the accounting logs, but neither of them noticed.

"I'm sorry, who's making me work sixty hours a week? Who's not paying me for the overtime I work? Who's the one always napping in the middle of the day when he should be working?"

At the end, her voice reached a very high pitch and for a moment, everything was quiet.

He rubbed his fingers across his eyelids and groaned tiredly.

"Then get out."

"I don't want to leave," she hissed, almost before he had finished speaking.

"I don't care if _you_ don't want to leave,_ I'm_ the boss." There was a weary sort of determination in his voice.

"I can't just leave, Fred! What would you do without me? You can't make yourself a bloody cup of coffee unless I'm there pulling your strings! Face it, Fred, the only reason Weasley's Wizard Wheezes isn't out of business is because of me! This store _needs_ me, Fred—"

"It's doing perfectly well by itself—"

"You need me!"

"I most certainly do not, Hermione. Get out."

They were both breathing hard, and sweaty patches were spreading across their backs, down their necks, trickling down into their shoes.

She narrowed her eyes, fighting weary tears, pulling out the largest weapon in her arsenal.

"If George was here, he wouldn't fire me, you heartless, cruel bastard!"

In half a second, his wand had been whipped out and was pointed straight at her heart. "Take it back—"

Her breath caught. "Fred, I'm sorry… that was out of line—"

"I said," he repeated through clenched teeth, "take it back."

She stared at him. It was a bitter, harsh thing to say, but it was true. And they both knew it.

She didn't blink.

"No."

He finally lost it then, slamming his arms on the desk and choking on the words, "You don't know what it's like! Pretending to be fine, going back to how it used to be…"

"Fred…" she moved towards him cautiously, more scared of this half-furious, half-despondent man than she was of her controlling boss.

As she neared him, he lifted his head and let out a ferocious, animalistic growl and snarled, voice cracking, "I am _one half_ of a person trying to live the life of one!"

It was the confession that finally did it. He had slit open his soul and it had spilled all over her. Now he needed to be rid of her, or she would become a constant reminder, tinged in the darkness of his mistakes and his lies and his failures. Fuck. _Fuck._

He sucked in air, nostrils flared, and spent several seconds steadying his breath and trembling fingers, slowly returning to a controlled, lucid state from his crazed outburst.

"I'm firing you."

"No, you're not."

"What does it look like I'm doing?" He paused again to regain his breath, to regain some sort of control over the situation. "Why do you even want to stay? You say you hate this job—"

"I told you, the business would fail—"

"God dammit, shut up—"

And everything boiled up once again, heated by the weather and the office and their fight.

"I need you! I need to be useful, don't you get it? If I just sit there, or if I'm at the Auror office, I'll drown… I'll remember everything, it will eat me whole, don't you see? Why can't you bloody _see_?"

"Always meddling in my business—"

"Telling me what to do—"

"I should never have hired you—"

"I despise this job—"

"You are the worst worker I've ever had—"

"_I hate you!"_

Hermione stared at Fred, and Fred stared back. The question tickled the edges of their minds. Who had said it? Both had been thinking it, but they weren't sure what had tumbled out of their mouths in the middle of the moment**.**

The last words dangled in the air like a spider, and neither was brave enough to swipe it away. The guilt and shame weighed heavy in the room.

She broke the deadlock first, rushing back into the kitchen, gripping the sink with panicked breaths and gagging, retching, but nothing came up. Then she returned to the front office, snatched her purse and notebooks from the desk, kicking the water pitcher to the corner of the room, and she had almost made it out of the door and escaped down the steps when he called after her.

"I didn't mean it. I don't hate you. I just… I am so tired now."

She leaned against the doorframe, tilting her ear so he could tell she was listening, but she didn't look at him. All she wanted was to get out of there, but her moral side was forcing her to hear him out.

"I don't hate you," he repeated. "It's actually the opposite… You're—a comfort. You're the only person always in the office… I can count on you."

At this, she turned, surprised, to see a slight blush spreading across his cheeks and eyes focused on the floor beneath his feet. She didn't know what to say. He didn't know quite what he was trying to say either.

She was halfway onto the street when the second floor window was flung open, banging wildly against the stonework and her boss shouted, "May I walk you home?"

xxx

Her flat was on the third floor, four rooms, nothing special. They stopped outside the fence of the complex, and she entered the yard alone with not so much as a word of thanks. He stared after her.

Her brown hair had fallen out of her bun and trailed along the edge of her collared shirt. He wanted to pull her back by it and shake her until she realized.

Her heel hit the top step and her hand had almost grasped the handle when she turned around. He was still at the gate, gazing at her and looking somewhat like a confused puppy, but mostly like a very lost and broken man.

"Do you…" she faltered a little, then started again with renewed fortitude. "Do you want to come in? Have a glass of wine, maybe?" She winced, hoping he wouldn't notice the nervousness and indecision contained inside the smoothness of the vowels and clipped tartness of the consonants.

There was the briefest of pauses, and then he clicked open the gate and slowly came closer. There was confusion at the entry when he grabbed for the handle to usher her inside politely, and she had already begun to open it herself.

Eventually they managed to walk up the stairs to the first floor landing, the overhead lamp illuminating them in its spotlight like the triumphant closing scene of a Hollywood film.

He was trailing a little behind her like he was afraid she would fall.

She paused on the top step and gave him a tiny, encouraging smile, and as they turned the corner and disappeared out of sight, he reached for her hand.

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><p><strong>Let me know what you think! I'm just easing back into writing after a long and boring hiatus.<strong>


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